Shed
by 221BBC-MissMoriarty
Summary: "A well tailored suit is a secret all in itself, isn't it Holmes?" Secrets aren't all that's shed during when the two consultants are trapped during their roof top meeting. Intense Triggers. Angst. SelfHarm.
1. Chapter 1

**An original, warning for angst, depression, self harm... all that jazz. Hurt!Moriarty unlike any other fics! No slash, just an unlikely friendship**

**-And, hurray for the first ever FanFic of mine thats ****_planned_****! I mean, I have all the chapters named and everything!**

* * *

_"Thank you." Moriarty uttered those unfamiliar words, smiled as his hand raised, gun to his mouth. Sherlock involuntary winced as a gun shot rang out, sound still echoing in his ears. Yet, the man in front of man wasn't dead. He wasn't bleeding out, lying cold on the ground below - the ground below. Why didn't he notice it before? A chalked out section, a slight differentiation in the flooring, a square around the consultators. It- It was a door. They were standing on a trapped door._

_This time, a different shot rang out, piercing the air. This was a creak, a bang, as the floor below gave away, the vertigo feeling leaving the two men numb as they fell into the darkness._

* * *

Sherlock was quick to react

A quick analysis already happened, file stored away in his "Mind Palace". 2 meters by 2 meters, square. Common concrete, seemingly endless, if not for the trapdoor in the ceiling and the small barred prison door on the northern side. A cage, adorned with nothing - wait, not nothing. A small deck of cards, shuffled about in the center of the "room". A slam signaled the trap door shut, proving the theory of more than one worker involved in this scandal. Sherlock presumed Moriarty to have done the same analysis, after all "_We are alike, you and I". _So, once more, Sherlock was quick to react.

Yet sooner than Moriarty could faze out of the drop-induced daze, Sherlock rammed the smaller man up onto the wall, fingers strategically placed, crushing his windpipe. The strength of the hit knocked stars into his vision, but Moriarty rolled it off with his diziness, an eye roll adding to the facade.

"What game are you playing, Moriarty? Switching it up, are we?" The detective snarled, obviously angry with the sudden turn of events. He had it all planned out - ahead of Moriarty by a mile. Yet he wasn't planning on this, his prepared plan forced to change.

Moriarty himself tried not to panic. This wasn't going well... not at all... what the hell was happening... who would do this... dammit his head hurt... and his hand hurt, the blast of the gun iving him a dull ache in his wrist. Yet he knew heneeded to take control. Yet another one of his compulsions. Control. Superiority. Dominance. To make up for all the submissive years... Great._ You're losing it. Again._

"Well, if you're so interested in The Game, Sher, care to join me for one?" Sherlock thought he was in control. So why shouldn't he be? After all, acting was a forte in his symphony. Moriarty gestured to the small pile of cards,strewn about the floor.

With a sigh, Holmes shook his head, and recited off the facts - like he presumed was what this madman wanted. "From the qunatity of cards one can deduce half the deck to be gone, all though those face up show it to be all diamonds andhearts, clubs and spades missing, The design proves to be an early make, early but common. The damage done to said deck gives the image of use during an extended period of time."

Sherlock Homes stood standing.

Moriarty always found him a fascinating creature.

"Perhaps you didn't read between the lines... _Sit. Down._" A thunderous rumble came from aboce them, perfectly timed with Moriarty's demand. Hesitantly, the detective moved, uncharacterstically sitting cross-legged on the floor. The timing of the above noise was lucky - it gave Moriarty a sense of control, a sense of craved superiority, of _needed_ power.

Though he had no idea in hell what was going on.

"Well someboy get Lockie a 'nice try' sticker. Your deduction skills have dulled - unlike your common sense." Moriarty hinted in his patented sing song voice. "Two suits - two suited men. One a weak, pathetic heart - the other a sharp _brilliant_ diamond." A rolled brilliant, his sing song voice.

His monologue was interrupted by a baritone scoff. "Think that highly of yourself"

Moriarty found himself bewildered. Sherlock thought he was the diamond. Thought he was clean to the cut, hard boiled, shining in the light, worth something - no no no. That won't do at all. He was the heart. A weak, frantically beating heart, doing everything he can to stay alive. Instead Moriarty dropped the funny voice, along with the funny business.

"They're alike. We're alike, both you and I. Red, red with all the blood shed and lies fed." The soft whisper turned into a louder, angry accusation. "Don't pretend its not true, Sherlock," he spat, "You know its true. You've done it all, you've hurt people. Good people Sherry. You made them cry, you've made them bleed, you simply are repulsing, aren't you?" Moriarty stood, towering over the man on the ground. "Molly? You remember. You absolutely ruined her Christmas, didn't you Grinch? Or Lestrade? You're just the unwanted mutt of a puppy, scrambling for attention, just to be kicked away with cold cases. Don't give me that look! You know its true! What about this? What about - " Moriarty's high and low voiced accusation suddenly dropped in dynamic, and tempo, to a soft whisper, a soft arrow aimed to peirce the heart.

"John?"

And yet, the weak minded Heart failed to see, how a simple arrow failed to pierce an indestructible Diamond.

"No." Sherlock said.

"Excuse you?"

"No. You say I'm like you, we're similiar - we are not. I am nothing like you. I'm not the repulsive, annoying _psycho_ killing for attention. Yes, I'm idiosyncratic. So are you. Yes, I'm keen, cunning, sharp minded. So are you. But the difference between you and I, Moriarty," the name spat with such venom, as Sherlock stoodup, taking back dominance of the conversation, slowly backing the ciminal up against the wall, "I have friends. Real friends. People who actually care about me. People who will see past my flas, and quirks, and still accept me. _Unlike_ you. You won't be accepted - not in the shadows you hide in, not in the mafiatic web you built, not even in death. You are utterly alone, and you deserve. Every. Moment. Of it." Sherlock ahd grabbed the collar of his jacket, effectively pinning Moriarty.

Moriarty was back against teh wall, Sherlock overshadowing the smaller man. He would have been able to see the reaction of the familiary words, how they affected the good-for-nothing ciminal, if he hand't told himself that same phrase, night after night, cut after cut, murder after murder...

_You are nothing._

_You are worthless._

_You are completely and utterly alone, just the way you should be._

_Just the way you like it._

Funny, it doesn't sound quite as convincing.

Instead, he focused on another weakening emotion. focused on anger, rather than angst. A scowl embedded into his facial features, mad that Sherlock so easily turned the mental affliciton on him.

"What, does that anger you? Make you quake with ' petty human emotions' that Iturned your own game back on you? For that is your plan, isn't it? Of course it was. To get me trapped in a place, the only excape to be my Mind Palace, to burn that down, make me break - _'burn the heart out'_ of the heart suit." He shook Moriarty for emphasis, head banging on the thick cement wall. "Well, , I. Won't. Break. Not by you, you pathetic, sneaking scum.

Sherlock let him go with an emphasis and a shove to the floor. He wouldn't succumb to the other mans ways. He couldn't. He couldn't break. Turning around he fixed his suit jacket, the tug seeming to end the bitching and bullying 'conversation'. A low chuckle, maniacal, and filled with... What was that? Anger? Irony? Fear?

"By the Queen - Sherry, how stupid can you be?!" Moriarty yelled. Sherlock stood to face the man, fear nipping at him, upon seeing the state of that simply wicked smile. "I," said the young one, voice innocent and childlike, a hint of malice edging his tone. "Have absolutely nothing to do with our situation."

Shit. Moriarty, you creep, what the hell are you doing? Giving away that secret? Your chance of control, the little treat to hang over Holmes head? Oh he knew shy. Sherlock had gotten under his skin - even if the detective has yet to figure it out for himself. He simply wanted to return the favor. Get in his head, freak him out, shake him up.

And his plan worked. Sherlocks eyes widened - just a fraction - as he tried to take in what just happened, Nom it had to be the Moriarty. Moriarty, the spider, and his complex web of lies, and blackmail, and crime...If not the consulting criminal, if not Moriarty, who? Why? He hated not knowing - he hated going into a game not knowing the rules. Hated not having any ammo. He most likely didn't know the captors, or at least deleted them from his Mind Palace, nor their motive, their aim... It was too much not knowing. Too much not good. Sherlocks knees buckled as he fell to the ground.

"B-bu-but if not you-" he stuttered.

"No fucking idea." Moriarty said lazily with a shrug. "and that must kill you, doesn't it?" Fake concern and a helluva lot of sarcasm oozed out of the sentence. "You don't know where, or how, but the thing that worries you most," Moriarty squatted down next to the dumbfounded detective.

"Is that you, are going to have to work, with me if you want out alive." He whispered into the others ear. "Lets get started, shall we?"

* * *

_Chapter 2:Clothes are Shed_

_"Your wrist - hyperextended, from the backfire of the gun shot. You're in pain." Sherlock noted, much to Moriarty's lack of content. "Let me see."_

_"What? No!" Moriarty was getting defensive. It was nothing. He's been in worse pain before. And he couldn't let Sherlock see... see _them_. No no, Sherlock wouldn't care - no one cares, especially when it comes to the low life lying little twat of a criminal - but still. Sherlock, as much as Moriarty would never admit, is a good man. Hes human, he would know. Know what was going on, and Moriarty couldn't handle the rejection of his enemy, the rejection, the disgust that would form on the others face, the scowl as Sherlock would push him away, the exasperated sigh at Moriarty's lack of skill enough to just _finish it off already_..._

_"Moriarty, we are working together whether you like it or not, just let me set it-"_

_"I said __**no!**__" He yelled, clutching his wrist closer to his body._

_"Can I just-" Sherlock moved closer, reaching for the damaged wrist._

_And for the moment of brief contact, skin to well tailored suit, Moriarty changed. He wasn't Moriarty, hard boiled criminal, he was James, and he was in pain. But in that flash of a second, where the face scrunched up in pain, such utter pain, Sherlock knew there was more damage done than a hyperextension._

_"...Moriarty?"_


	2. Chapter 2: Clothes are Shed

**Warning: Intense Triggers Ahead**

**No slash. Helluva lot of Angst :3**

* * *

"I can't do this!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands up, his restless pace across the 2 meters picking up speed.

"Can't do what, Lockie?" Moriarty asked with mock sympathy, cocking his head and looking up at the tall man.

"I thought I told you not to call me that." He said through gritted teeth, anxiety building up in him. He had shed of his coat and scar, folded them up and placed in the corner, yet the hour spent perfecting the folds proved OCD antics were not the vent for the stress. So he resorted to pacing and complaining.

"Well, somebody didn't say please. Rather me call you Sexy?" The criminal, casually leaning against the wall, smiled.

"Dammit Moriarty! This isn't a time for jokes!" His pace quickened even more, his long strides taking up the width of the room, causing him to spend more time turning, than actually pacing.

"It's not a joke - you are quite the sexy beast. I mean, John totally has the hots for you so it must be true, not to mention th-" Sherlock visibly winced at the mention of his blogger, Moriarty's plan to get under Sherlocks skin proved succesful. Sherlock wanted out, not for his own well being, as much as he wanted John. He was prepared 13 different ways of losing John, but this was not mentally prepared for - he couldn't stand _this_. _And just like that - you make the deduction you aren't wanted. Another day, another dissapointment, eh Psycho?_

"..._creep_" Sherlock muttered under his breath. Moriarty didn't even register the insult, locking up the depression to focus on the task at hand. "Let's start from the beginning - What do we know?"

"Sherrie, we've been over this already. And frankly, I find it _quite_ booorrring." Moriarty complained like a child.

"Solid concrete, and by the looks of the door, thick. Very think. Breaking our way out is futile, entry or exit would most likely come from the door. Exit is key. Key? There's got to be a key. Door locks from the outside - obviously what sort of organization would have a prison different. They probably have off switches on their bombs too. Required a two man or more organization. Possibly a higher power, feeding them demands? If only I could see one of the-"

"Hon, you're rambling agian." Moriarty interrupted, checking his hand out of boredom, and stopping the detectives outer monologue.

"At least _I'm_ doing something." Sherlock not-so-subtley hinted. He continued pacing.

"The only thing you're doing is killing yourself. Not how I wanted either. What a shame." This caught the detectives attention, who watched Moriarty, yet continued the frantic walking.

With an exaggerated sigh, he continued. "You're right - as much as I hate to say it - We _are_ hostages. And, from my experience at the other end, a good Master isn't a good Host. Wave goodbye to the necessities Sher, and _helloooo_ to the pain. You tiring yourself will only result in a quicker starvation - and I _don't_ like the smell of dead body in the morning."

"His observation seemed to have an effect on Sherlock, for soon, he stopped.

"But...why?" Sherlocks whisper was so low the other almost didn't catch it. "Why take us? For what? Who knew about the rooftop meeting? Who would take us? Who would take you? Why both? I thought you were top of the 'chain'?! This isn't right! I don't know, and I don't like not knowing! Dammit why wont they-" He cut off, breathing heavy and hard. Sherlock fell to his knees, trying to regain homeostasis.

"You're undergoing a panic attack." Moriarty simply stated, without even looking at the detective, without care. He crossed his arms, and looked down at the mess before him. "Many hostages do. And with your recent drug addiciton, and let's _not_ forget about your _past_ kidnapping - that's how you got into the substance abuse, isn't it? They punched, and they kicked, and they burned, and they thrust in, and out, and in, and out - then they pumped you full of drugs and dropped you by the Thames." He bent down next to his 'colleague'. Bringing up Sherlock's secret past seemed to act like a bucket of ice water - rushing over his features, waking his senses up. Holmes looked up to the other man.

"How did you know? Mycroft didn't tell you - but...?" Memories were flooding back, memories of his week of hell and years of trauma following."

Moriarty shrugged, not giving a definite answer. "Its what caught my attention - made my _really_ look at you. Now, stand up, breathe, and calm down." Moriarty offered his hand, making the mistake of offering his dominant one.

Yet, he realised his mistake too late. His dominant hand held his trigger finger, and his _aching _wrist, feeling a fiery pain pulsate with his heart beat, blocking out all other pain - including the itch of the scabs catching on the fabric of his suit.

He was smooth, though, taking it back and sweeping his other hand in to help out a..._friend? Friend my ass. No one ever has, or ever will be _your_ friend, you Freak._ But, luck was never on Moriarty's side. The detective, as broken as he may seem, still had the eyes of a hawk.

"I saw that." Sherlock mentioned, opting to ignore the hand placed in front of him._ No trust then. As should be._

"Saw what?" Moriarty's witty defenses were failing. Going back to elementary retorts. "Whatever Sherlock." He said, panicking, moving about in exaggerated gestures as if to thicken the facade.

"You...You called me Sherlock." The detective noted. He slowly approached Moriarty, not hard in such tight quarters. "What's wrong?"

"C'mon Sherrie. You know me Lockie. Everything's wrong, and nothing's wrong. Hey - sounds familiar, doesn't it Sexy? Poor poor Sher, with a poor poor past..." Moriarty was well past the point of panicking now. All those years of secrets and shadows, to lose this easily? To hell with losing.

"An overabundance of nicknames in hopes to make up your previous mistake. A quick move of the conversation, bringing the attention to me. You're panicking, a slight shake in your hands, eyes widening in fear - What are you hiding, Moriarty?" _No, this won't do. No, he can't. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no-_

_"__**No**__!"_ Moriarty burst, fists clenching at his sides. _Damn, that hurt_. He unclenched his fists, yet another panic ridden mistake. Sherlock noticed the small movement, head cocking as he deduced.

"Your wrist - hyperextended, from the backfire of the gun shot, that shot the gun out of your hands on the roof. You're in pain." Sherlock noticed, much to Moriarty's lack of content. "Let me see."

"What? No!"Moriarty _was_ getting defensive. It was nothing. He's been in worse pain before. And he couldn't let Sherlock see _them._ No no, Sherlock wouldn't care - no one cares, especially when it comes to the low life lying little twat of a crimingal - but still. Sherlock, as much as Moriarty would never admit, is a good man. He's _human_, he would know. Know what was going on, and Moriarty couldn't handle the rejection of his enemy, the rejection, accompanied by the disgust that would form on the others face, the scowl as Sherlock would push him away, the exasperated sigh at Moriarty's lack of sill to just _finish it off already..._

"Moriarty, we are working together whether you like it or not, just let me see it-"

"I said **no!**" He yelled, clutching his wrist closer to his body.

"Can I just-" sherlock moved closer, reaching for the damaged wrist.

And for a moment of brief contact, skin to well tailored suit, the mask dropped. It was quickly brought back up, but in that flash of time, where the face scrunched up in pain -_ such utter pain_ - Sherlock knew there was more damage done than a hyperextension.

"..._Moriarty?" _

"Just - Just leave me alone, you freak!" This was so unlike him. This wasn't the consulting criminal, making human bombs, threatning and flirting at the same time - This wasn't Moriarty. This was a man, broken and hurt and scared, backing away from Sherlock - This was James.

Sherlocks mind was whirring with information, deductions, possibilities, and _what the hell was going on_. You could see it - see the gears turning - see the way his eyes would move faster than humanly possible, soaking up every tidbit of informational evidence. James Moriarty couldn'tstand it. He felt like he was being judged, scrutinized, _again_, and he. Didn't. Like. It.

"Oh will you just stop it!" He exclaimed, his yell echoing off the walls. "You and your stupid deductions, alwasy getting in the damn way! No one cares, Sherlock, _No. One. Cares._ All you're doing is wasting your own damn time trying to show off! And no one likes a show off! Not Lestrade, not the Yard, not _even John! So just stop it! Stop it! Stop... stop... please..." _He quieted out, completely collapsing, becoming a broken Heart, clutching a 'broken' wrist, huddled into a protective position on the ground. Tears and pleads to stop streamed from the drastically changed figure, causing Sherlock to stop and try to process al that happened.

And there they stood. Maybe just for a minute. Maybe for a day. Neither knew. One man sobbing, one man stopping.

A broken Heart, and a dulling Diamond.

"James." The baritone was soft, and closer than expected. James looked up, into the eyes Sherlock Holmes, crouching in front of him. He... _He called him James._ No one called him that. He was Jim Moriarty, cutting edge criminal, idiosyncratic, brilliant, bombing mind - No. No he wasn't. He was just... James. He wasn't Freak, Psycho, Pathetic, Waste, or any other words that haunted his dark mind every dark night. He wa James.

"James," the name was soft and filled with suprising concern. "Let me help." And James found himself loosening out of the fetal position, tears stopping their flow, offereing his wrist to-

What? No! What was he doing?

He snapped his wrist back, one hand holding the other. _No. He didn't need the concern, didn't want any damn pity._

A chuckle, void of any laugh, came from Moriarty.

"Oh, Sherrie, I really got you that time, didn't I?" Moriarty stood back up, ignoring the ache deep within to curl back up and never let go. Sherlock followed in standing.

"What kind of lie is that?" It wasn't really a question.

"Not one! Do you really think I would give away a secret, such as - gasp - me, having emotions? Puhlease! Psychopath, remember? I'm dissapointed Sher, I really am, I expected so much more. but you are iwth the angels... I'm telling you - the dark side is much more fun." Moriarty was back. James was locked away.

"You give away plenty of secrets." Moriarty stiffened. "Just like your body langauge, that tensing in your muscles. If that was, say acting, then you wouldn't be on 're afraid Moriarty. The way you walk, the way you talk - I can see it. You know I can. Secrets sewn into the threads of your Westwood."

"A well tailored suit is a secret all in itself, isn't it Holmes?" Moriarty smirked. _Keep it Freak. Maybe you'll actually do something right._

"You're right." Both men were facing each other, in the middle of the room, as equals. "You custom ordered that suit, like all your others, a facade of money and power. Tailored just to you, a sign to show independence. Yet, you fail to realise the other modifications done. Long sleeves, fitted for a suit, yes," Sherlock began to get excited, completing his deduction rant, the fear in the other mans eyes fueling him for more. "But also fitted slightly longer than normal. Some may wave it off as a preference, for it does add a dashing look but no no, I know better. You're hiding something. 'Trick up your sleeves' if you will. You're hiding beneath your sleeves Moriarty. Same with the length of your trousers. and buttoned up neckline. You try to hide, but I see right through it."

"...H-h-How... but you couldn't... nobodys that clever..."

Sherkock laughed. He actually _dared_ to laugh. "I didn't know. But your reaction told me all that I needed to know."

_No. Dammit you Freak, look what you have done. Now he's going to want to see them, he's gonna force it out of you, he's going to look at them, and touch them, and then comes the rejection, the anger - do ou understand data you're doing? Idiot! That's not right! You're just doing it for attention - you want someone to care! No one cares, no ne ever will! Just end it a,ready, if you can slit your wrists, you can slit your throat!_

"You...You bastard." James muttered, looking down. He couldn't face Sherlock, knowing that _he knows_. The rejection on his face, the damn dissapointment, or worse, _the pity..._ Tears were threatning to spill, but he bit those back.

Sherlocks smile fell, his tone dropped to a demanding tone. "James."

"No! Never!" he snapped back. He barely had a moments notice before Sherlock lunged at him, dodging the curly haired man, trying to escape. The room seemed to small, far too small. It was claustrophobicly small, sucking all the air out, leaving him scrambling for breath in his state of panic. _No no no no nononononono_

James dodge ended up being futile, for the detectives long legs and the small room failed to aid the smaller man. He found himself pinned against the wall, one arm held above, legs bound between Sherlocks tight knees, chests pressed up against each other, trapped by the others weight. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the next move. Sherlock took his free hand, reaching for the sleeve of James free left arm, lifting it up, higher and higher, the struggling fought against Sherlock harder and harder.

But Sherlock saw. A glimpse. A peek. But it was enough

There were fading punk and scarred white cross hatches, aged but never gone. Deep scarlet horizontal cuts, lining his forearm, scabs broken and bleeding. Small burns, and bruises that seemed to fail at fading, and a long - and frightengly deeper than any others - vertical slice, working its way up and up and what was that? Was that... An E?

Even Sherlocks mind couldn't work fast enough to complete the maze of lines and pretty patterns adorning James. For the bumping and thumping struggle pushed the cuff back not it's rightful place, and he shoved the tall man off him.

"No!" he screamed, full of rage - this was his dark secret, not for Sherlock! It was his own undoing, his own right to hate bum self, he didn't need his enemy seeing his weakness and laughing at it!

"Dammit Jim I'm trying to help!" Sherlock growled, the intensity of his plea momentarily stunning the other.

..._help?_

The stun was enough time for our beloved detective. He knocked James down, opening up his jacket.

James had to admit. Sherlock Holmes, straddling him on the floor, stripping him down -wait, what? No! He was bloody fucking trying to-!

They struggled and they fought, rolling over, wrestling - teeth even lashed out at one point - till finally, Sherlock fucking Holmes got what he fucking wanted. He wanted to see, wanted to know? Well here he fucking was. James Moriarty, shirtless, missing a shoe, belt undone, trousers clinging to stay up on his hips, all flaws flaunted to the world. No... He slid down the wall, tucked his knees in tight, curling himself into a ball, hoping to hide. No point in hiding now... No shadows to linger in, no facade to take refuge in... He brought his hands up to his hair, pulling on his locks and moaned low. Hell, it even sounded like a pathetic whimper. He was aware of tears bubbling up behind his eyelids, hiding his face behind his legs, and the blood bubbling up from the scratches and slices and scars reopened from the fight. He moaned again, desperation and failure plaguing his mind.

Sherlock stood dumbfounded. He was unable to draw his eyes away from the map on the other mans body. Much worse than he thought. But he _needed_ to see.

"James... what the _hell_ have you done?"

* * *

_Chapter 3: TearsShed_

_"Oh please!" He exclaimed, raising his head from his protective ball. "You don't have to pretend _Sherlock!_ No one cares - I get that, I really do! So why don't you get the fuck away from me, and up yours! Just stop it! Stop trying to be damn helpful! You just feel obliged - society poisined you. You're supposed to 'care for others', and 'help others'...Well I'm not like others Sherlock bloody Holmes! And since when did you care about what society thought about you? To hell with it all!"_


End file.
